The train rocked gently as it rounded the countryside, the gentle hum of metal wheels on tracks rising and falling like a pulse. Hazel rested her forehead against the cool glass of the window, her breath misting briefly before clearing once more. Beyond the window, fields stretched out endless shades of green and gold blending together in the soft morning sunlight. The air still carried the fresh scent of rain from the storm that had passed earlier that day.
She had dreamed about this moment so many times the day she would finally be coming home. But now that it was here, her emotions tangled in ways she couldn't quite name. There was warmth, yes, and excitement, but running underneath was a muted strain of nervousness. It had been three years since she had seen her family. Three years since she had traded laughter and sound for candles and silence. And soon, when she returned to the convent, she would be taking her final vows dedicating herself completely to the life she had chosen.
The convent had at first been peace itself, a sanctuary where the world's noise could not intrude. But she had found that silence, too, could be oppressive. Peace could be loneliness. Her fingers found the wooden rosary in her lap, tracing the smooth beads by routine. She was not nervous, she told herself. Just. uncertain.
As the train began to slow, her heart quickened. She spotted through the window the small station, the very one she'd left from years ago. The paint on the sign was chipped now, the platform cracked in places, but it was familiar enough to ache in her chest. She disembarked from the train with her bag clutched close, the cold wind caressing her face.
"Hazel!"
The voice of her mother cut through the little group of people like a ray of sunshine through cloud cover. Hazel had barely enough time to smile before she was caught in a warm hug that smelled of lavender and kitchen spices. Her mother squeezed her so tightly it almost hurt.
"Let me look at you," she said, moving back. "Oh, you've grown so much. I'm sure they feed you so much there?"
Hazel laughed. "They do, Mum. Quite well, actually."
Her father was the next to step forward, not so loud but just as demonstrative. He pulled her into a tight hug that spoke volumes more than any words could. "Good to have you home," he said softly.
Richard, her older brother, was next. Now taller, the same boyish smile still on his face. He slung an arm around her shoulders. "So the saint returns," he teased. Hazel rolled her eyes but smiled. "Hardly."
They walked towards the car together, her mother talking over top of everyone, her father interjecting with the occasional comment, and Richard injecting jokes into the mix. After years of near silence, the noise of her family was nearly, but not quite, overwhelming in its familiarity. Like climbing into warm water after having been cold for too long.
The drive home was a haze of half-familiar sights. The old bakery on the corner still leaned to one side. The same gnarled tree bent over the road in what seemed a bow of greeting. Yet there were changes; the fence around the park had a fresh coat of paint, and a little café stood where an empty lot had been.
When they finally reached the house, Hazel hesitated before stepping out. The shutters were green now instead of white, and the porch swing she used to love had been freshly painted.
"It looks different," she said quietly. Her mother smiled. "We thought you'd like the change."
Within, the house was scented with cinnamon and something baking sweetly in the oven. The walls had been repainted, yet the same family pictures graced the same places, birthdays, graduations, the photograph of Richard cradling a cake that leaned to one side. Hazel's hand brushed against one of the frames as she passed, the dust and the years beneath her fingers.
Dinner that night was loud and filled with laughter. Her father carved roasted chicken while her mother insisted everyone eat more. Richard talked about his new job, his friends, small-town gossip Hazel couldn't keep up with. She listened for the most part, smiling, laughing in the right places, taking in every bit of the noise and warmth she'd been missing for so long.
By the time dinner was over, the sky outside had turned to that blue that appeared almost velvet. Her mother kissed her forehead and went to bed, and her father patted her on the shoulder. Richard lingered a bit longer, cracking a joke about visiting her at the convent before yawning and disappearing down the hall.
Hazel sat in silence for a while after they'd gone, her eyes traveling over the living room, the half-burned candle, the tick of the ancient clock on the wall, the faint scent of her mother's perfume still in the air. She opened the window in her childhood bedroom and let in the cool night air. There were crickets chirping somewhere in the garden. The town was vibrant in a way the convent never could be. Noisy, imperfect, but achingly familiar.
Hazel lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, a small smile on her face. She'd missed this more than she could ever express the laughter, the chaos, the off-beat hum of life. And as her eyelids grew heavy, a gentle thought seeped into her mind. Coming home was supposed to be simple butt somehow, she had the feeling it wouldn't be.